City Chic
by PhiraLovesLoki
Summary: Killian's been dreading the Nolan's New Year's party, since they're desperate to match him with their daughter and keep him from going back to city life. What could he possibly have in common with a small town girl?


**Written for my dear friend killians-dashingrescue as a holiday gift! May the new year bring you pleasant surprises and plenty of joy! I done fucked up here, by the way (wrong work romance AU prompt), but I really had fun with the AU I picked by accident!**

* * *

"Killian, you're coming to our New Year's party, right?" David asked as he finished locking up his office.

"Aye, I'd planned to." Killian stayed focused on his computer monitor, willing his boss to just _leave_ and start his vacation already.

"Good!" David replied, much too quickly and happily. "I mean, yeah, it should be a good time. You know, my daughter will be there."

"You've mentioned."

"Mary Margaret told me to tell you that if you're coming, you should dress up a little."

"Aye, you've mentioned."

"All right, good luck with the rest of your shift tonight, and the rest of the week." Finally, David was actually leaving. "And I'll see you on Thursday."

As soon as David left, Will snickered. "Gee, I wonder why on earth Mrs. Nolan wants you to dress up a little."

"Shove off."

"To be fair, we were _all_ told to dress up a little," Graham pointed out as he continued to fill out paperwork.

"I don't know why he's bothering."

"He hates to see any of us good, decent fellows lonely, is all," Will offered.

"Decent?" Graham asked. "And just whose record was I asked to ignore when I was processing your employment paperwork last year?"

"Bloody hell, Humbert, we can't all be perfect."

"Will you all shut up so I can get some work done?" Killian asked. "Scarlet's the only one on the night shift, and as pleasant as your company always is, mate, I'd prefer not to join you."

"Of course, wouldn't want to interfere with your beauty sleep," Will said, clearly amused. Graham grinned but didn't add anything.

Killian bent his head back down at the case file he was working on. He was _tired_ of all the pressure that his boss was putting on him. On the one hand, he could understand it a little. He'd drifted into town to get away from a catastrophic break-up, and David Nolan had taken him in and given him a job. It was to the sheriff's advantage to make sure that his excellent new deputy stayed in town, and what better way to do that than to get him to settle down and never leave Storybrooke?

Except that Killian really wasn't sure he wanted to stay. Yes, small town life had been a breath of fresh air—a necessary one, certainly—after how things had ended with Milah. He'd gotten in his car and driven all night, with no destination in mind, until he'd pulled off the highway for gas. The attendant at the full-serve station had been one of those overly chatty old townies, and as soon as the old fellow had pried it out of Killian that he didn't plan to stop for the night, he practically forced him to go to an old bed and breakfast for the night.

And then, of course, he'd woken up to find that his car needed some serious maintenance (he'd been putting it off, since he'd been preoccupied with Milah), and the local mechanic was going to take three or four days to repair it. And _then_ , of course, there was a problem with a part that had to be shipped from the manufacturer, which was going to take another week.

By then, his story had spread throughout the town, or at least enough for some of the movers and shakers to take notice. It had been his new drinking buddy at the local pub who'd passed on his name to a former barfly turned sheriff's deputy, and then the sheriff himself had stopped by the bed and breakfast, where Killian was still staying, and offered him a job.

So a few weeks had turned into over six months, but he deliberately picked a studio flat that was month-to-month, and he famously refused to make plans more than a week in advance with anyone. At this point, he wasn't sure why; Storybrooke was as good a place as any to hide from the wreckage of his relationship, and the people seemed to like him well enough. But there was something about the knowing smile of the sheriff whenever he mentioned his daughter, or the fact that every other week or so, a copy of the _Storybrooke Mirror_ would land on his desk with a few flats circled, that really bothered him.

He was certainly tired of the former. After Milah, how could he even begin to think about starting a new relationship? And of course, if David got his wish and Killian dated his oft-mentioned daughter, it would _have_ to be a relationship. He wasn't foolish enough to fuck the sheriff's daughter and never call her again. And that's all he could possibly do right now.

Not that he'd been doing that with anyone; there seemed to be a dearth of eligible young women in this otherwise picture perfect New England town. Or at least, he never ran into any of them during his sheriffing duties, at the local grocery store, at Granny's when it was his turn to pick up coffee or lunch, or at the Rabbit Hole on his nights off. One night stands were off the list so long as he lived here.

Maybe once the new year was upon him, he'd figure out a new plan. Liam was anxious for him to come home, but Killian just wasn't ready to return to London, especially when it felt as though he'd be returning in defeat. If he left the States now, it would prove that he'd only moved there in the first place because of Milah. He simply _had_ to stick it out; he would only return to London if there was a more compelling reason than having nothing left for him in the States.

But one thing was for sure: the sweet little daughter of the local sheriff wouldn't compel him to put down roots. Absolutely not.

* * *

New Year's Eve at the Nolan residence was quite the affair. Every room in the house (or at least the first floor, where guests were mingling) was decorated extensively with glitter and fairy lights, and the well-dressed but surly waitstaff carried around trays of unrecognizable appetizers and flutes of champagne. Killian had left his studio feeling overdressed, but now he wished he'd worn a sports coat over his dress shirt.

He knew that if he approached his hosts, he'd never have a chance to breathe; David would insist on introducing Killian to his oft-mentioned perfect flawless daughter, and Mary Margaret would gleefully show him off to all of her friends so he could make all sorts of stay-in-town connections. Instead, he looked out for his fellow deputies.

Both men were deep in conversation with fair members of the opposite sex—each a brunette beauty. One of them, tall and curvaceous with a killer smile, certainly looked dangerous enough to be the daughter of the town sheriff, while the other, petite and angelic, looked sweet enough to be the daughter of the town's most beloved elementary school teacher. It was hard to tell which one bore more of a resemblance to his would-be benefactors, but whichever one was the young Miss Nolan, she was clearly busy having a grand old time with one of his colleagues.

He tried not to feel a little irritation.

It was becoming clear that this was not the sort of party he wished to attend; everyone knew each other well enough to be excluding him, and he had no intention of inserting himself in any ongoing conversations. That would be _asking_ to be part of the community. After a couple miserable hours of lurking, when he was sure no one was looking, he took his champagne glass and headed up to the dark second floor.

He'd simply meant to find an empty guest room, where he could send a few texts to his brother (it was already the new year in England, after all), and possibly check his news reader. As he wondered how long he could possibly stay upstairs before David or Mary Margaret noticed, he spotted faint light coming from underneath a closed door at the end of the hall.

He wasn't sure what possessed him to open the door—what if there was a young mother pumping? What if someone were ill and trying to get away from the noise? Or, even more embarrassingly, what if a couple had snuck away for a tryst? Knocking didn't occur to him either; he simply entered.

"Oh shit!" A blonde woman was sitting on a bed, clutching at her chest with one hand and her phone with the other. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"Apologies, lass." He felt his ears burning. "I was curious to see who else had taken a short break from the festivities."

She chuckled. "More like _escaped_. I couldn't take any more small town elbow rubbing. You know?"

"Aye. It can be overwhelming, even with all the small town politeness."

"You mean _especially_ with all the small town politeness," she said with a grimace. "I miss the city—you can be rude to everyone and no one cares."

"Oh, absolutely," he readily agreed. "None of the high horse about people being on their phones too much, or not smiling as they pass each other on the street."

"Maybe some of us have other things on our minds besides grinning at strangers," she suggested. "Ugh. I really miss it."

 _This_ was exactly what he needed—an engaging conversation with someone who understood him. Whoever this blonde was, she was clearly a kindred spirit. And _gorgeous._ Forget about the Nolan's daughter—who was _this_ siren?

"Then what brings you to Storybrooke? The holiday season?"

"Eh, not usually. I grew up here and recently moved back."

He could sense the truth of the situation from the tone in her voice. "Bad break-up?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Open book, love."

She smirked. "More like takes one to know one, I bet. But why Storybrooke? You clearly didn't grow up here."

He shrugged. "It was far, far away from the scene of my ruination. I've been enjoying the pseudo-anonymity."

"Fancy," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't … uh, you don't mind if I hide in here with you, do you?" he asked. "I'm currently being pushed in the direction of my boss' daughter, and while I'm sure she's a delight, I doubt I'd have much in common with a small town lass." _More in common with you,_ he thought.

"Be my guest," she said. "My parents want me to move back permanently, so they're trying to match me with someone, too. Who's your boss? I can tell you whether or not they're barking up the wrong tree."

"David Nolan, our esteemed host," he said.

The color drained from her face, but before he could put the pieces together, the door practically slammed open. "Emma! There you are!" He turned to find Mary Margaret standing in the doorway. "Oh, and Killian! I was wondering where you'd gone off to."

"Mom!"

"Sorry, I was actually looking for you both so I could introduce you—what are you doing up here?" She put her hands on her hips, and Killian immediately got the feeling that she was not to be disobeyed. "Come back downstairs! You're missing all the fun!"

The woman—Emma—made an irritated noise. "I needed a break, Mom. I'll come down later."

Mary Margaret frowned before shaking her head. "Well, you should come down soon. You can't miss the countdown!"

"Great, fine, _bye_ , Mom."

Mary Margaret seemed as though she was about to say something else before thinking better of it, but then she left, shutting the door softly behind her.

"God, that was probably the most embarrassing moment of my life," Emma said, her voice muffled. When Killian turned back to her, she had her face covered with her hands.

He had to admit, he was quite embarrassed himself. He had found himself in exactly the situation he'd been intent on avoiding (meeting the boss' daughter), and had gotten _caught_ with her in a bedroom by her mother. "At least you've got company," he suggested weakly.

"Did you know?" she asked, looking up at him with an accusatory glare.

"Know that you were the Nolans daughter? No—I came up here trying to avoid meeting you."

"And I came up here so I could avoid meeting _you_ ," she said bitterly. "So you're the esteemed Killian Jones?"

"Apparently." It was then that he noticed he wasn't standing in a nondescript guest room; there was a _Princess Bride_ movie poster on one wall, several stuffed animals in a large basket in the corner, and, on the back of the closet door, a collection of eclectic scarves that no human over the age of fourteen would likely wear voluntarily. "Bloody hell, and we're in your childhood bedroom, aren't we?"

"Yep. You'd better lock the door, by the way. It's already eleven, and you _know_ she's going to be barging in again in ten minutes, asking us why we're still up here."

He did as he was bade; meanwhile, Emma herself had risen from the bed and was wandering around the room. "So this kind of sucks."

"I wouldn't say that. If anything, it's immensely awkward. You're certainly not bad company—I just wish there weren't a set-up looming over our heads."

She gave him a thoughtful glance. "I guess so. It's a little annoying that you're handsome and charming. I kind of hate when my parents are right."

Charming? He resisted the urge to puff out his chest a bit. "Well, to be fair, they have an ulterior motive; they're operating under the assumption that if we were to date, we'd both stay here."

"Right, and?"

"And they seem to be forgetting that _neither_ of us has any plans to stay here."

She frowned thoughtfully. "I guess that's a good point. Like, what if we totally hit it off, and then we both moved to Boston or New York or something?"

"Precisely. Though," he added, "I'm not sure I could be terribly interested in someone with such _interesting_ personal taste." He gently fingered one of the scarves; it was made of a strange, stretchy material, and was shaped like a tube. "Is this one made from a dead muppet?"

"Very funny," she said, grabbing the scarf out of his grasp and off of its hook. "This was totally in when I was in high school." She wrapped it around herself, as though it were haute couture. "How do I look?"

"Stunning," he said, grinning. "Absolutely stunning." She struck a pose. "But I'm sorely underdressed, love."

"We can't have that." She grabbed a sheer leopard print scarf and pressed it into his hands. "Try this one."

"Very well." He wasn't the scarf wearing sort anymore, but there had been a period of his youth when he'd worn one nearly every day so long as the weather was cool enough. His fingers were still well-practiced when it came to wrapping and tucking the fabric, but when he was finished, Emma was very clearly trying to suppress a fit of giggles. "What?"

"Oh, just look." She pushed him in front of a mirror, and at the sight of his surprised face, she lost her composure. The thin, gauzy material was clearly not meant to be fashioned in the same way as the thick, woollen scarves he was used to. And of course, the pattern pushed the effect from the territory of unusual to that of absurd.

"Well," he said, trying not to laugh. "I think this is a fantastic look for me. Perhaps it's a bit too _out there_ for a jaded city girl like yourself, but I spotted some other eligible young women downstairs who might be taken with my fashion sense."

"Hey," she said defensively. "I know fashion—I lived in New York for a decade. And I think you're just missing some key elements here. Hold on." She opened the closet and began digging into what looked like quite a mess of old clothes. "Here we go." That was all the warning he had before she was suddenly in his personal space, and he barely caught himself before he accidentally smelled her hair. A few moments later, when she backed away, he could see what she'd done in the mirror. He was now wearing a ridiculous purple fedora with a pink and black polka dotted band, and a bright green disco ball necklace.

"Oh, but this just isn't fair," he complained. In reply, she just tutted at him before diving back into the closet. When she emerged, it was his turn to laugh out loud; she was now wearing a straw sun hat and a pair of orange 2000 new year's eve glasses. "Oi, I didn't realize we were going to party like it's 1999."

"Now we're equally ridiculous," she said.

"You mean fashionable," he corrected.

"Right," she said, with mock seriousness as she modeled her attire. "These frames are all the latest rage after an innovative runway show during fashion week."

"I should think so." He tipped his hat to her. "I can hardly resist your allure, darling. If you want to avoid fulfilling your parents wishes, you need to drab yourself down a bit. You're much too attractive right now as is." He immediately bit his tongue; he didn't _want_ to remind her about the set-up because … well ...

"You're one to talk!" To his relief, it didn't faze her, and to his surprise and delight, she took it further. "You're so city chic, my panties are soaked. I don't stand a chance."

"Well, of course they're soaked," he said, unwilling to be the one to back down, not when things were getting interesting. "You've got to have deft fingers to tie a scarf as well as I do."

Now he _had_ gone too far. She stopped smiling and looked a little dazed, almost offended. Bloody hell—fifteen minutes ago, he'd been ready to run from this party and count himself lucky that he hadn't encountered the Nolan's daughter, and now he was damning himself for botching his opportunity to get to know her better. _Well done, Jones, you bloody idiot._

"Oh, fuck it," Emma said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. Before he could process what she was cursing about, she yanked him by his well-tied leopard print scarf and kissed him _hard._ The plastic frames of her oversized novelty glasses dug into his cheek for a second before clattering to the ground.

She continued to tug on the scarf, leading him to the bed, and as he sucked hard on her lower lip and shoved his hands into the back pockets of her skin-tight jeans, their hats knocked into each other and fell to the floor. "Wait, wait, wait." The hats seemed to have broken the spell. "Hold on."

"Sorry, love." He removed his hands (and immediately regretted it—her arse was _perfect)._

"No, I just—I can't do this with these ridiculous accessories on."

"Oh." Well, that was different. "In that case, I suggest we remove them." He quickly unknotted the gauzy scarf and let it flutter to the floor before tugging off the disco ball and tossing it back into the closet. Emma, in the meantime, had pulled off both her own scarf _and_ her top.

"Don't tell me this is too much for you," she said, a challenge in her voice.

"Goes well with the theme," he answered. When she quirked her eyebrow, he added, "Victoria's Secret fashion show."

She chuckled, glancing down at the lavender lace of her bra. "In that case, I'm overdressed." Any disappointment he felt at her stilettos coming off was assauged by the fact that her jeans soon followed, revealing matching panties. "Now, what are _you_ modeling for me?"

For a brief moment, a stern, responsible voice in his head (which sounded suspiciously like Liam) reminded him that he was at his boss' house, and he was almost certainly about to fuck his boss' daughter in her childhood bedroom after knowing her for approximately twenty minutes. And that his boss was well-trained in the use of various firearms. But then said boss' daughter lay back on the bed and spread her legs ever so slightly before crossing them seductively, and to _hell_ with it: he liked this woman _much_ too much to care about the circumstances of their meeting.

He began to sway his hips back and forth as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt—he was pleased at his decision to forgo an undershirt. Emma giggled, and as he was about to open his shirt all the way and show off his chest and stomach, he swiveled around to deny her the sight. "Oh that's just cruel," she said, still laughing. "Show me the goods."

"Excuse me, darling, I'm trying to _model."_ He turned slightly with his hand on his hip. "This _is_ the third or fourth finest shirt that money can buy at Banana Republic during one of their many sales."

"I can see that."

"And," he added as he shucked the shirt off, "these jeans are _all_ the rage in the Back Bay." He shook his hips again before he began unbuttoning the fly. "Imported all the way from wherever the hell the Gap outsources its labor."

"Button fly," she commented. "Doesn't that slow you down?"

"One cannot overstate the importance of …" and he slowed down once he reached the last button, "anticipation."

"Mmm. And how about what's underneath? Purple lace?"

He toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks quickly, and a bit ungracefully, before he started to wriggle off his jeans. "No such luck, love. Instead, we have some flannel boxer shorts; the old standby underwear is in right now—nostalgia and all—and wonderful for cold Maine nights. And they do wonders in terms of flattering a man's glutes."

She burst into laughter before saying, "I think they'd look better on my floor."

"You tell me," he said, before pushing them down. He was relieved and very pleased that her laughter instantly ceased. "Now, it seems as though you're overdressed again, love."

"Maybe you could help me," she said, blushing fiercely. "All the fashion tape and everything to get into these clothes—you know how the runway is."

He nearly tore both the bra _and_ panties in his haste to remove them, and then he was free to reach every spot on her with his lips and tongue. Emma's whimpers were muffled—there was a party going on downstairs, after all—but deliciously erotic, and he had her coming in no time at all. Her panties had _indeed_ been soaked to begin with.

"Hold on," she said, still breathless, only moments after her orgasm. He was initially a little offended; he hadn't expected to truly incapacitate her with pleasure, but very few of his previous sexual partners had ever been eager to move after coming. Even more disheartening was the fact that she was pulling on a bathrobe and—leaving?!

Suddenly nervous (what if Mary Margaret came back to check on them?), he pulled the loose covers over his hips to hide his raging erection, and he contemplated getting dressed and leaving (the room, the party, _the town)_ before anything humiliating happened. But then, as quickly as she'd left, Emma returned, locking the door behind her. "Sorry, I left them in the bathroom," she whispered apologetically, before waving a roll of condoms at him.

"Oh thank god."

She made short work of getting back into bed and rolling a condom onto him, and before he could remind himself that he probably shouldn't have a one night stand with his boss' daughter, Killian was sliding into her and gasping as she clenched down on him and bucked her hips.

It was one of the shortest fucks of his life, including his first time; although it was quite satisfying, he knew that it was almost midnight, and the longer they were upstairs, the more likely it was that one of Emma's parents would come looking for them. Moments after he came, he was tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash, and they were both dressing hurriedly (though Killian noticed, a bit gleefully, that Emma forgot to put her panties back on).

Once they both finishing smoothing out clothing and attempting to reduce their sex hair, there was a knock at the door. "Emma? Killian?" It was David this time.

"Dad, we'll be right down!" Emma replied impatiently.

"Good, it's five minutes till midnight." The sheriff paused. "What are you doing in there?"

Thinking quickly, Killian grabbed the leopard print scarf and the novelty glasses, winding the former around his neck and tossing the latter to Emma. She shoved them on her face as Killian opened the door. "Emma was showing me some of her old high school accessories," he said, with as straight a face as he could muster.

David's suspicious glare immediately melted into a relieved, goofy grin. "We've got to get a picture of you in this scarf!" he said. "And Emma, I can't believe you still have those things!"

"I'm gonna party like it's 1999," she said, before flashing Killian a grin.

David laughed again. "All right, come on, your mom's freaking out that you're going to miss the countdown," he warned, before heading back down the hallway.

"Coming," Emma said, following. Killian felt her fingers brush against his own as she passed him.

They did not kiss at midnight, although both Will and Graham received smooches from their new acquaintances ("That's Ruby, my mom's student teacher," Emma whispered to him ten minutes later, as Graham left with the statuesque brunette. "And that's the new librarian, Belle, although I wouldn't have thought she'd get along with Will, from what I've heard"). Not only was Killian not ready to admit that perhaps David _had_ been right about how well he'd get along with Emma, he also had no idea what Emma expected at this point. Their tryst, while much too brief, had been intense and enjoyable, but what about his existing objections to the arrangement? And hers?

It was only as he was walking back to his flat at one-thirty in the morning that he realized that not only had Milah not crossed his mind once the entire evening, but that for the past hour and a half, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about how disappointed he was that he couldn't kiss Emma at midnight, and ring in the new year with her lips on his.

Any questions he had about how she felt about the situation were answered when he got ready to sleep that night.

First, he found that she had stuffed her lavender lace panties into his jeans pocket when he hadn't been paying attention. She clearly _hadn't_ forgotten to put them back on; she'd intentionally left them with him as a parting gift.

After he'd partially undressed, his phone beeped with an incoming text. The number was unfamiliar, but he opened the message to find a mirror selfie of Emma wearing nothing except a see-through camisole and _his boxers._ He quickly unbuttoned his fly and confirmed: he _was_ going commando. And when he read the messages that came with the image, he groaned and his cock sprung back to life.

 _I've already found an outfit to model for you next time._

Perhaps staying in Storybrooke for a while wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed the story, and I'd love to know what you think! And, of course, have a very happy new year!**

 **I am no longer posting stories to FFnet. For new stories, check out my page on AO3 (same username, phiralovesloki; there's a link in my profile as well).**


End file.
